The Heartroot
by mkaz
Summary: After working her magic on Kyle Kingson, Kendra turns her attention to his equally vain and selfish father, Rob. But she's not going to take away Rob's precious good looks - she's just going to take away everything else. Sequel to "Reconciled" and plays off of the ending of the movie.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _Beastly_ is based on a book by Alex Flinn. I do not have any claim on the story or the characters.

* * *

Rob Kingson sat in the broadcast booth at the Cool 99.7 studio, about to be interview by Stacy Flash, one of the main DJ's. He'd already had to do this twice before today, and had the procedure down pat.

"And we're back with Mr. Rob Kingson, the host of – you guessed it – 'The Rob Kingson Show.'," Stacy Flash announced. "It's the talk show that all of New York has been buzzing about for weeks. Rob, thanks for joining us."

Rob leaned forward slightly towards the mike and smiled. "Thanks for having me, Stacy," he replied in his best news anchor voice, treating the blonde radio host to one of his patented smiles.

The disc jockey was just barely able to keep a blush from reaching her cheeks, and Rob was sure she was grateful she was in radio and away from the eyes of her 50,000-plus listeners. "Can you tell us a little about the show?" she purred.

Immediately Rob launched into the pre-composed spiel that the network's PR team had meticulously compiled for his city-wide publicity tour. His show was going to be one that the family could watch together, tackling the tough issues with honesty, integrity, and grace (the network had drilled it into Rob that he needed to use those three specific adjectives, in that specific order). He also mentioned that the show would have lighter moments as well, with celebrity chefs, celebrity animal trainers, and celebrity celebrities as guests.

When Stacy asked the previously arranged question of the truth to the rumor that the talk show would be carried in other cities, Rob answered smugly that his show had indeed been picked up in Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Richmond, and they were planning to add more major cities as time went on.

"Just one more question off the record, Rob. The word on the street is that you're single and available. Would you care to confirm that for our lady listeners?"

With a forced laugh, Rob replied, "I don't kiss and tell, Stacy. But I will say that I'm an incurable romantic. I firmly believe here's someone out there for everyone."

"There you have it, folks. Be sure to watch Rob weekdays from 11 am to 12 pm on channel 6. Thanks again for chatting with us, Rob."

"Thank you, Stacy."

Once they went to commercial, Stacy eagerly turned to Rob, hoping to find out just how "single and available" he might be. But he coldly sidestepped her approach, and without another word to her, quickly exited the booth to meet up with Larry, the network's assigned PR rep.

Larry looked over his shoulder at the pouting blonde DJ standing forlornly at the end of the hallway. "Well, she looks disappointed," he observed.

"Nice enough girl, but that ethnic nose is a problem. I guess the station hasn't gotten any offers to advertise for a good plastic surgeon yet. I'm sure she'd get a good discount."

Larry blanched at Rob's comments. Being short and balding, he'd kill to have the attention of a girl like that. But that was Rob for you. He'd gotten used to it.

The two men made their way out to the limo that was waiting for them. Automatically Rob pulled out his Blackberry to check his mail. "So where are they making me go next?"

Larry double checked his schedule. "Actually…99.7 FM was the last interview for the day. We're headed back to the office. Apparently your new intern is starting today."

Rob snorted, his eyes glued to the glowing screen of his handheld. "Well, as long as she knows how to make a decent cup of coffee and looks good in a skirt, it's no skin off my back. She'll be Julie's problem."

* * *

Julie, Rob's assistant, wasn't kidding when she said his new intern was odd-looking. In fact, she was far too kind. This girl could have given the boogeyman nightmares. Deathly pale skin, eerie green eyes and hair to match, weird tattoos twisting across her brows and temples, a heavy black cloak that looked like something out of a gothic novel. Rob gaped at the girl standing in front of his desk for several seconds, then recovered himself and managed to utter, "_You're_ the new intern?"

"I am," the girl answered with a smile and a confidence that surprised him. "Kendra Hilferty. _Very _pleased to meet you, Mr. Kingson." There was something about the way this girl phrased the words in her mouth – knowing, almost condescending. Did she even know who she was talking to?

Newscaster and intern stared each other down for a few seconds, until Julie broke up the uncomfortable silence and said, "Kendra will be with us until January, Mr. Kingson, when she begins her winter break from NYU."

Rob then remembered that his assistant was there and snapped an irritated look at her. She paled under the withering glance. "Julie, may I speak with you alone for a moment? Ms. Hilferty, if you'll excuse us?"

Once they were in the hallway and out of earshot, Rob cornered Julie, his face contorted with rage. "Have you lost what little sense you have? How could you bring that tattooed freak into this office?"

"M-Mr. Kingson, please, it wasn't my idea—"

"You screen my interns, don't you? What did you do, go to her to get some tea leaves read? Thought she'd make a good addition to a respectable, twenty-five year old network? What was your major in college – idiocy?"

"Mr. Kingson!" Julie exploded, then recovered herself. "Mr. Lauter hired her."

Rob groaned and pinched his nosebridge between his fingers, as though a headache were coming on. Bernie Lauter was beginning to worry him. He'd never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, even from the time he'd first started seven years ago. Rob was wondering if he was starting to get dementia or something.

Still, he was the head of the network, and if Rob wanted to keep Bernie happy and keep his job, he'd have to go along with this travesty. He sighed and squared his shoulders, putting on his best game face. "Fine. But you'd better keep an eye on her and out of my way, or you'll be looking for a new job."

The next three hours of Rob's working day dragged. He did his best to avoid his creepy new intern, and to Julie's credit, she did a fairly decent job of keeping Kendra out of her boss's way. Every now and then he'd lift his head and scowl at the sight of her, whipping those lime-green tresses of hair around like it was attractive, stomping around in those vaguely menacing looking black velvet stilettos. He even heard her and Julie laughing at something together at several points – probably at him. Rob would remember that. He might not be able to fire Kendra himself, but Julie he could flick off like a flea from a dog's ear, anytime he wanted. He was sure that would sour their blossoming friendship.

He had an hour-long meeting at the end of the day to do a final run-through of the first episode of his talk show, and was pleased to find that by the time it was over, the little freak had left for the day. Rob breathed a sigh of relief, collapsed into the backseat of his car, and unwound with a glass of chardonnay from the cooler while his driver wrestled with 5 PM New York traffic.

* * *

"You still haven't told me if you're going to make it on Saturday."

Rob inclined his head slightly to look at his redheaded companion for the evening, who was busy combing her fingers through his chest hair. "Sorry, what's on Saturday again?"

With a huff, she sat up in Rob's bed and glared at him. "The Harvest Ball my parents throw every year at their house for Garden of Hope. I've been trying to get an answer out of you for two weeks now, Rob! Jeez, do you ever listen to me?"

Rob rolled his eyes. He was getting tired of Lana trying to turn him into her boyfriend. They'd already established long ago – they were friends with benefits. No, actually, from Rob's point of view, they were _acquaintances_ with benefits. Lana was far too annoying to ever be a friend of his.

But, she was gorgeous, successful, and came from old money – the perfect arm-candy for professional and social outings. So he indulged her. "Yes, yes, I'll be there."

She grinned. "Perfect, I'll pick you up at seven." She was about to snuggle back against his chest when he gently pushed her aside and sat up. "I'm going to get drink. Want anything?"

"Gin and tonic sounds great," she breathily told him, lying seductively on her side with a smile.

Rob made his way downstairs, feeling irritated. Lana was getting too familiar. That was one complication he didn't need. He opened the fridge to look for the bottled water and was met with further irritation. Beryl, his housekeeper, had forgotten to stock the shelves with Evian like she was supposed to. Instead the bottles were sitting in the corner, still in the cartons. He was really getting tired of her incompetence. Why, just this morning he opened his armoire to find that his pants weren't pressed the way he liked them – with a crisp, clean seam running down the front. It was times like these that he actually missed Zola. His former maid did her job far better. But Rob had sent her to live with Kyle during his condition, and she'd given him notice that she'd taken another job a few weeks ago. He never should have sent her to the apartment in Brooklyn. It's not as if Kyle needed that much attention – he had a tutor, after all.

He sighed in regret, made Lana her drink, and resigned himself to having a room-temperature water. When he returned to his bedroom, he found his lover sitting up, looking at a piece of paper in her lap. As he handed her the drink, he realized she was looking at the postcard he'd received from Kyle a couple of days ago. He snatched it from her hands.

"Sorry," she said, looking hurt. "I just saw it lying on the night table. That's Kyle?"

Rob gave the flimsy piece of cardboard a cursory glance. The front was a print of Rue de la Paix by Beraud, the back had Rob's address scribbled in along with a note from Kyle: _Having a great time in Paris, heading to Spain next. Hope all is well. Love, Kyle. _Glued to the back was a photo of his son and that girl he was living with before, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, their arms around each other. Rob knew Kyle had included that picture to prove to his father how happy he and that girl were together, that Rob had been wrong.

Rob wasn't looking forward to the collect call he'd inevitably get from Kyle, his son angry and distraught when he discovered his "true love" had skipped away with all of his money. "I just don't understand it, Dad," Rob could picture Kyle telling him. "I just woke up and she was gone with everything. How could she do this to me? What do I do now?" Rob hadn't decided yet whether he'd bail out his son or not.

"Yes, that's my son," Rob answered Lana's question.

"Aww, he looks like he's having a great time. Is that his wife?"

"Ha! Hardly. Some girl he met at school that he decided to squander his trust fund on."

"Do you miss him?"

"I haven't really spent time with him in over a year."

"Was that your choice?"

Rob scowled at Lana. He'd invited her over to blow off some steam, not to get psychoanalyzed. "I don't want to talk. That's not what you're here for."

With that, she sat up, her lips pursed in indignation. "I'm a Harvard-educated junior partner at one of the best law firms in the city, not a hooker. Screw you, Rob!" She began to gather her clothes.

"Oh, come on, that's not what I meant. Don't do that."

She stopped buttoning her blouse. "Are you saying you want me to stay?"

Rob hesitated, considering it. He wouldn't mind Lana staying, if she'd just shut her mouth and they could do what they did earlier. Then again, it was going on eleven. He needed to get to bed soon if he was going to get his seven hours of sleep and be refreshed for tomorrow. It wouldn't do for him to miss sleep – that's how devastating dark circles under the eyes began. He didn't want to rely on oil-based concealers, not with the glare the lights threw off in the studio.

He didn't answer her fast enough. Pulling on her skirt and shoes quickly, Lana said coldly, "Don't bother. I have my answer. And don't worry about escorting me to the Harvest Ball either." She crossed the room with a fluid dance and slammed the door behind her.

Rob leaned back in bed and shut his eyes. That was upsetting, but it was better that it happened now. Things were getting too serious – at least, on Lana's part. Women were all the same: no matter how passionately they claimed that they were fine with a casual relationship, they never were. They always fell in love. And Rob knew all too well – love was for fools.

At least awards season wasn't for another couple of months. Plenty of time for him to secure a new flavor of the month to escort to the ceremonies and parties. Until then, he'd keep his options open. He finished the last of his warm Evian and got up to brush his teeth.

The master bath always had interesting acoustics, but somehow, the echo seemed even more pronounced tonight. Rob brushed his teeth and leaned his arms against the polished marble counter, inspecting himself in the mirror. He was forty four, but he could easily pass for thirty eight or thirty nine, he knew. The lines in his face were beginning to come in, but they were thin, delicate. He worked hard to keep them that way: plenty of water, rest, exercise, rare botanicals.

The rest of his body was a study in precision as well. Toned arms, chest, stomach, legs. His exercise routine was rigorous but sensible as well. Too much muscle on someone in his business was intimidating, and besides, it did no good to look like a stuffed sausage in a well-tailored suit.

He had the body, the career, and the life that everyone dreamed about, and he knew it. He could see it in himself when he studied his reflection. But, as always, he didn't linger too much on his eyes. He didn't like to look at his eyes. Not that they weren't appropriately expressive when necessary; he just didn't feel the need to look into them.

He finished his self-inspection and turned out the light.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Okay, still a little slow-moving, but we're getting there! Enjoy!

* * *

He could hear the swell and hum of the audience as they got their cue to start clapping. The cameras were beginning to turn in the direction of the back stage, where he would make his entrance. Ron, the announcer, was introducing him in his rich, bass tones. Rob allowed himself a moment to savor the fanfare, to really drink in the attention he'd earned himself. The very first episode of his, _his_ talk show.

Then he got himself into "the zone" and strode out to the set. He passed the eager, adoring faces of his sycophants: Julie, Brenda, Larry, the crew. The last person waiting on the edges was that intern, Kendra. Her arms were crossed against her chest, wearing a sly grin. Rob quickly averted his eyes from her. She made his skin crawl, and that was the last thing he needed right now.

He now walked past the aisles of audience members, shouting his praises, stretching out to shake hands with him. He greeted them all with boundless enthusiasm, making a mental note to coat his hands in Purell as soon as they were at break.

"Hello, hello everyone! Welcome to my show! Is everyone ready for a great hour?" Rob called to the camera, allowing the audience's cheers to provide the answer to his rhetorical question. He looked around him, smiling at all the groups of audience members. Once the applause died down, he continued. "As you all know, this is our pilot episode. And we thought we spend it getting to know one another. So I wanted to tell you a little bit about my life through pictures."

Rob watched with a small, yet prideful grin at the montage of photos from his life that he, the PR department, and the media group spent a week painstakingly putting together. There was the photo of him as a two year old, holding his favorite teddy bear. His mother chasing after him as he rode his bike down the sidewalk of his old Dansbury neighborhood. He and his father leaning against his first car he got when he was seventeen years old – a '79 Mustang. Going to the prom with Cindy Henley. Graduating from college. His first big break in the newsroom: interviewing Bill Clinton on the 1 year anniversary of 9/11. All the while, the warmth cadence of Rob's voice-over narration carried his audience to all the appropriate emotional highs of his life. Finally, his working-class upbringing had paid off.

The soft warbling of a nameless tune on a piano marked the end of the montage. It was perfect…almost. The final image before the screen went blank was not the one he'd spent a long, sleepless night agonizing over: a grinning, humbled Rob thronged by the news crew when it was formally announced on the 6 o'clock segment that he'd been given the talk show. Instead, it was a color photo of Rob holding his son, Kyle, just hours after he was born.

Rob gaped at the photo. Where the hell had that come from? It had been years since he'd seen that picture. He'd even forgotten that it even existed until that moment. God, he looked terrible. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in 48 hours, having worked a full day, then coming home to do more work, then his ex-wife going into labor and staying in labor for over 24 hours. He looked haggard and dirty, a day's worth of beard dotting his face, and wearing a crumpled suit from the night before.

It escaped Rob's notice how happy he looked in the picture.

He was embarrassed and furious, but he had to keep going. Rob swallowed quickly, gathering himself as the cameras turned back to him and the audience began their clapping. "That's me, everyone! Hope you enjoyed the ride. Tomorrow, it'll be your turn. Our show will be helping members of our audience work out their issues."

He continued with the show, keeping himself in the zone as best he could. He interviewed his two guests: the author of a new book about Dwight Eisenhower, and an up-and-coming young actress starring in some generic tween movie about to hit theatres. He donned an apron and helped the head chef of a five star Mediterranean-themed restaurant in Manhattan make tzatziki and tabouli.

Then the taping was finally over. The camera panned away from Rob's handsome face to take in the entire audience clapping, then the end credits were cued. As Rob made his way out of the studio and over to the corporate offices, he was nearly bombarded by crew members, giving their congratulations. But he ignored all of them, and as he passed Larry, he snapped, "You, come with me now."

Rob prowled the hallways like a hunting tiger, Larry following sheepishly behind. He stopped at the multimedia offices, not bothering to knock on the door decorated with a poster of Captain Kirk and Captain Picard. He just flung it open, startling the two technicians who were in the room at the time.

"What the hell happened to the bio-montage I ordered?" he demanded.

One of them, a balding lard-ass with Brillo-like hair, whose name Rob couldn't be bothered to remember, put down the donut he was inhaling and sputtered, "We-we put it together just as you wanted, M-Mr. Kingson. We made the edits you sent to us yesterday-"

"Edits? What edits?" Rob interrupted.

"The ones you sent by email to Randy. The email said to use the attachment as the last image in the montage," the other technician, a gangly kid whose face had been ravaged by acne, spoke up and told him.

Rob shot a look at Larry. "Did you do this?"

Larry shook his head. "Wasn't me, Rob."

"What the hell is—" Rob began, but was interrupted by his boss, Bernie, bursting into the room.

"The audience LOVED it, Rob!" Bernie exploded at the frustrated host. "Loved it, loved everything! We are going to murder channel 8 and 4 in the ratings!"

Rob's face went blank. "Loved it?" he repeated in awe.

"Absolutely. Especially that photo of you and Kyle at the end of your bio! Great idea to switch out that other one in the news room."

Rob gaped at his boss, then noticed something out of the corner of his eye. It was Kendra, standing in the doorway, a smug smile on her face. It was her. The witch did it. But how did she do it?

He had no choice but to go along with it. "Thanks, Bernie," he replied with a sigh.

His boss grinned widely. "Run-through of tomorrow's show is in fifteen minutes." With that, he turned and walked off, dragging Larry with him to find every way possible of promoting the show's audience favorability to the public.

"Congratulations, Mr. Kingson," Lard-ass media tech told him. Rob glared at him but said nothing, sauntering out of the office after his intern.

Kendra seemed to be walking at a pointedly slow gait, as if she wanted Rob to catch up to her. "Kendra!" he shouted at her.

She stopped right before the door to his office, turned, and smiled sweetly. "Yes, Mr. Kingson?"

He scowled down at the seemingly-frail young woman. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Why, I don't understand-"

"Don't give me that bullshit," Rob said in a soft, fierce voice. "Besides Julie, you're the only person on this team with access to my email account. You sent that photo to Media without my permission. Let me make this clear: your job is to make photocopies and get me my soy lattes. If you can't handle that, there's 50 other flunkies waiting to take your job."

Kendra shrugged, not fazed at all by Rob's words. "You heard what Mr. Lauter said – the audience loved it. And besides, you didn't seem to have any problem taking credit for what I did."

"You're not here to be recognized for what you do," Rob snapped. "And you'd better thank your lucky stars that your little stunt played out well, otherwise you'd be out on your gotho-trash rear end right now." He pushed her aside and entered his office.

"Do you ever think of him?"

Rob stopped in his tracks upon hearing her question. Slowly he turned around. "Think of who?"

"Your son. Kyle. Remember him?"

Rob tipped his head back and smiled joylessly. "Ah, so now it makes sense. You're a friend of Kyle's, aren't you? He sent you here in order to get back at me. That's how you got that photo. I had been wondering."

Kendra shook her head. "I know Kyle, but he didn't send me. It's not something he'd do. He's at peace in his life. Too bad the same thing can't be said for you."

"My life is none of your business!" Rob practically screamed at her. God, he hated this little bitch. Why did his idiot boss have to saddle him with her? "You either learn your place, or you're out. I don't care who you know or how you got here. You're not going to bring down this network."

Kendra's face grew very dark and very fierce, and for a moment, Rob actually felt scared. "I would never do anything to jeopardize this network, Mr. Kingson. My family and I have far too much invested in it."

"Then just stay the hell out of my way," Rob growled through his teeth. "You don't want me as an enemy, little girl. Believe me."

Kendra's eyebrows raised in tandem, and a small smile appeared on her face, as though she were listening to a child throw a tantrum. "Yes, Mr. Kingson, of course. I apologize." Her voice was soft, soothing. "I'd better go print out copies of the script for your show tomorrow. And I'll have a cup of soy latte waiting in the conference room for you when you meet with Mr. Lauter." She walked out of the room.

Rob exhaled deeply and sank into his leather office chair. He leaned back, trying to push the image of his intern's pale, gaunt face from his mind. He'd hosted his very first episode of his show, and it was a success. Everything he'd been working for, clawing at, had finally come to him.

He allowed himself a few minutes of calming meditation before he lifted himself out of his chair and started out to the conference room for the briefing on the next day's show.

But then, an unnerving realization hit him, stopped him in his tracks.

The photo that walking cadaver had sent to Media – the one of him and Kyle that was broadcast on the show today – he knew now why he hadn't thought of it in some time. His mother had taken the photo. The only copy had been destroyed years before, in the basement of his parent's old house by a flood.

So how did Kendra get it?

* * *

It turned bitterly cold once the sun set that evening, but Rob didn't notice as he strode into his loft, still dressed in his exercise clothes. For the first time since he'd begun learning krav maga a year ago, Rob was able to disarm his instructor. It was an excellent feeling, helping him to forget about the incident earlier at work. He went to the kitchen for a water, happily finding that Beryl had stocked the fridge with Evian like she was supposed to.

As he sipped his water, he checked his Blackberry, which was, as usual, bursting with unread messages. Wardrobe sending a reminder about the change from the grey pinstripe to a white button down and khakis for tomorrow's taping. The latest feedback from the audience poll (mostly favorable). A final confirmation from Cool 99.7 about the scheduled time for Rob's taping of his show's promotion. Rob read through them quickly, his thumb flying gracefully over the screen, only to stop short at an unread email from Lana. Rob smirked as he read her name. She was writing to beg him to take her back. It was only a matter of time, he'd known.

But the message was a hastily put together note, telling Rob that she thought she'd dropped one of her earrings in his apartment and could he please take a look and mail it back to her? She even thoughtfully included her Park Avenue address in case he'd forgotten it.

Rob slammed the Blackberry down on the kitchen counter rather ungracefully. Wounded pride was not something he healed from quickly. His eyes darted around the living room, looking for a distraction, something to take his mind off the snub.

Sure enough, he found it. A pale yellow envelope, sitting on the coffee table. Narrowing his eyes, Rob walked over to it and picked it up, turning it around in his hand. It was the RSVP to a celebrity bull roast and auction the network had goaded Rob into doing. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of some lecherous old woman with more money that God buying up his time, but he knew that things like this were going to be expected of him as he took the next step in his career.

He'd told Beryl to mail the RSVP this morning. He hadn't waited to the last minute to send it – there was still two weeks left – but nonetheless he was exasperated that she hadn't done what he asked.

As if on cue, Beryl came down the stairs lugging the vacuum cleaner. She looked up and smiled pleasantly when she saw him. "Oh! Good evening, Mr. Kingson."

Rob picked up the envelope and held it up for his employee to see. "Why wasn't this mailed today like I asked?" he demanded, not bothering to return the greeting.

A slight flush surfaced on Beryl's sienna skin. "Oh, Mr. Kingson, I'm so sorry. I had to bring your drycleaning downtown, and then I had to go over to my son's school and get him because he caught the flu. Before I knew it, it was time to make dinner. It slipped my mind. I can take it to the post office tonight when I go home." She reached out to take it.

But Rob held it away from her. "That won't be necessary. Your services won't be needed anymore."

Beryl's eyes grew wide with fear. "Oh, Mr. Kingson, please don't fire me! I need this job. I have to take care of my mother, and my boy. It took me so long just to find this one…"

"Well, maybe you should have done it better," Rob interrupted in a cold voice. He seemed so calm and rigid on the outside, but inside he was at war. There was a part of him arguing that he should be merciful, that it was a small oversight and hardly worth letting her go over.

But there was the other side of him, the more dominant side, that needed to be able to control something. After the stunt that witch Kendra had pulled earlier, he wanted to be able to get his way. Besides, Beryl was constantly neglecting his wishes, making excuses. He couldn't just let her get away with it.

The whole time Rob was debating this with himself, Beryl was still begging him, doing all but getting on her knees in a plea. Rob spoke again, ignoring everything she'd just said. "Get your things and go. I will have your last check mailed to you."

Beryl's eyes dropped to the ground like a child who'd been scolded. Without a word, she gathered her coat and purse, and left the apartment.

Rob put his hands on his hips, looked down at the ground, and sighed, rocking back and forth on his heels. It had to be done, he told himself. He hadn't gotten where he was today by being softhearted.

Calmly he went to the mini bar and poured himself a scotch, deciding that he needed something stronger than just plain water. He was holding the glass to his lips when a voice echoed in his head, startling him: _You're going to regret what you did, Rob._

He closed his eyes and shook his head. Where had that thought come from? He focused his attention elsewhere, on the spectacular skyline view of the city from his apartment.

He took another sip, and the voice broke through his thoughts again:

_Your wealth, your success, your good looks are irrelevant. That alcohol definitely won't help you. You're empty, Rob. You have nothing._

Rob shut his eyes and groaned. "It's your imagination, that's all," he told himself aloud. "You're just tired."

He forced his eyes to focus on his reflection in the glass instead of the outside view. His handsome face stared back at him, but he was momentarily startled. The shadows of the night fell over his reflection, and just for a moment, it looked like his face was sliced with huge, deep lines – they were frighteningly familiar. He actually had to put his hand to his face to reassure himself that they weren't there.

Later that night, he realized why the lines of the shadows were familiar. They cut across his face the same way Kyle's face had been mutilated, all those months ago.


	3. Chapter 3

"Well, Dave, looks like I should order a side of crow with this excellent omelet. Europa Café is top-notch."

Rob's dining partner for the morning, Dave Lazinsky, grinned and wiped his lips with his napkin. "I thought you'd enjoy it. Now, can I go back to my boss and say that we've got _the_ Rob Kingson signed on to be our new spokesman?"

Dave was the director of marketing for Triumph, a line of men's athletic apparel that was extremely popular in California and was looking to expand their market on the east coast. He'd been nagging Rob's PR team since it was announced that he'd gotten the talk show, praising the anchor's physique and touting him as "the best body on New York TV." Rob knew Dave was just stroking his ego, but it was true. There was a reason why the network had chosen him for a talk show that required nearly constant full body shots on each episode. He had the body that every man in New York wished they had.

And there was an advantage for Rob too, of course. Triumph was the premier athletic line on the west coast, and would introduce him to a whole new demographic. Why, he wouldn't be surprised if Hollywood knocked on his door not too long after, offering him a movie or TV show.

Rob smiled. "Tell your boss that Rob Kingson jogs every morning wearing Triumph on his sleeve."

"Ha ha! You know our slogan."

"Well, any good spokesman should."

"Excellent. We'll call you tomorrow to work out the details of the contract."

After saying his goodbyes to Dave, Rob walked out onto Broadway and a gorgeous, breezy day. An impossibly deep blue sky met his eyes, and it helped him to forget about all the unpleasantness of the night before. He needed to remember to tell Julie to find a respectable cleaning agency so he could hire a new housekeeper. When he thought about it, he'd have to remember to start the hourly wage at five dollars less than what he'd offered before. He was far too generous with his pay, and it encouraged laziness. Beryl was proof of that.

He was about to get into his limo when he happened to look down the street and saw Richard Armell, the head of the network that was always a close competitor in the ratings. He was about to enter an office, and he was holding open the door for a tiny woman with long, ratty blonde hair. Rob squinted and leaned forward slightly, and when the woman turned her face ever so slightly to the left, he realized who it was. Kendra Hilferty. Kendra, Bernie Lauter's little pet beast, chatting and smiling with Armell and going into the same building.

Rob scowled and got into the limo. He didn't know why those two were at the same place at the same time, but it was useful knowledge to file away for possible future use.

* * *

He arrived in plenty of time for Wardrobe and Makeup to take care of him before the taping of his second show. Nunzio was doing an excellent job on his cheekbones and chin, knowing that those were the oily zones of his combination skin. He glanced at himself in the mirror. "My hair's getting too long. I need a cut," he remarked to the petite Italian stylist.

"Ah, no, Meester Keengson," Nunzio replied. "You keep your hair long. Eet make you look younger. You need it."

Rob glared at him. "I do not. I've never looked better."

Nunzio chuckled lightly, but Rob could see the fear in his eyes. He knew he'd made a mistake. "No, no, Meester Keengson. I mean that eet will make you more popular weeth the younger viewers. You want those younger viewers, no?"

Rob squared his shoulders. "I don't need to look like a hippie to attract younger viewers. I'm quite popular with the 18-25 female demographic."

Nunzio shrugged. "You know best, sir."

Just then, Julie walked up, holding a file in her hand. "Here are the fact sheets for today's episode, Mr. Kingson."

Rob took them from her without bothering to thank her. He read over them grimly. He already knew most of the information by heart, but he liked to have it fresh in his mind nonetheless. The theme of today's show was going to be about parents dealing with their problem children. He recognized all of the names of the guests, except for one. "Who's Aaron Steiner?"

"Oh, he's the psychologist you'll be speaking with. Dr. Schell had to cancel at the last minute, so I called around the city and managed to get Dr. Steiner to appear at the last minute. I stayed up late last night and pulled together a good cheat sheet to bring him up to speed quickly. I got him into wardrobe and he feels ready to go." She smiled and blushed.

Rob grunted in reply and shoved the papers back at her. "Well he'd better look decent on TV and not screw up." When Julie just stood there, Rob looked at her puzzled. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get back to the office and look out for that fax from Triumph."

Julie looked down in defeat. "Yes, sir." She turned and walked dejectedly out of the dressing room.

Nunzio spun Rob around in his chair. "Well, Meester Keengson? Is good?"

Rob sighed as he examined himself his reflection in the mirror. "Ah, Nunzio. Your fellow stylists must envy you. You have the easiest job in the world, styling someone who needs so little work."

"Hmm, yes, sir. You are right."

Rob was too busy studying himself to notice Nunzio rolling his eyes.

* * *

The first half of the show went wonderfully. Rob affected perfect tact and compassion while talking with a single mother with an anorexic daughter and parents with a son in a gang. The second half of the show was a doozy: a man having to deal with his son's desire for a sex change. Rob took a deep breath and braced himself. If he played everything just right, it could mean a Peabody award. He was sure of it.

Rob smiled brilliantly as the camera zoomed in on him after the commercials were over. "Thanks for joining us again. We have one more story, and I think it's probably going to be the most polarizing for our audience. Let's take a look."

The montage began to play, and it hadn't been on for more than five seconds when Rob knew something was terribly wrong.

Instead of the Bible-thumping, rednecked right-winger from Georgia complaining about his son, it was a handsome newscaster from Florida telling his story. His son, who'd once been the spitting image of his father, was now horribly disfigured from a car accident.

"I know he's still my son, but…when I look at him, it's like looking at a stranger," the man said. The montage cut to a shot of his son after the accident, and it elicited a couple of gasps and groans from the audience. His hair was gone, including his eyebrows and eyelashes. His nose was just a mashed mass of flesh in the center of his face, his bottom lip all but gone, giving him a permanent, grotesque smile. And all over his cheeks, chin, and forehead were deep, purple cuts.

"I loved my son, but I-I don't know how to love this boy." There were the last words that played during the montage.

The camera panned back to Rob, who was frozen in shock. Panicked, his eyes darted to the backstage, where he saw Kendra, leaning against the wall. She was smiling brightly in triumph. She did it. The witch screwed him over once again.

He felt very hot and found it hard to breathe. Somehow he managed to recover his voice and he stuttered, "W-w-well, let's hear from our expert, Dr. Schell?"

"Dr. Steiner, actually," the short, grey-haired psychologist piped up from his seat on the raised dais. "Well, based on what I've seen…"

The doctor began to give his opinion, but Rob barely heard him. He was furious. Kendra had tampered with his show once again, and the parallels to this story and his own were not lost on him. She was trying to break him, trying to make him feel guilty for what he'd done with Kyle. The two of them were in on it together. He was sure of it.

By now, Dr. Steiner had finished speaking, and everyone was looking at him to provide his own two cents on the issue. The doctor leaned forward slightly. "Rob?" he asked.

Rob put on his best smile and turned to the camera, putting together the most politically-correct answer he could think of in that moment. "Well, Dan's got himself in a very difficult position, and…with access to good doctors and therapists, he and his son can begin to rebuild their lives."

"But, Rob," Dr. Steiner argued gently, "They've been to the best plastic surgeons in this country, and the U.K. There's very little that can be done for his son."

"Well, then what is he supposed to do?" Rob snapped in exasperation. "Just give up his life, his career, to take care of his mangled kid? It's not like he can take his kid out for pizza anymore. The best thing he can do is make sure he's provided for."

"You…don't think he should try to support his son in trying to live a normal life?"

"A 'normal life'? Are you on crack?" Rob cried out at Dr. Steiner. "There is no normal life for this kid. This world doesn't tolerate freaks. The very most his son can hope for is pity from people. And I think most of us would agree that it's a fate worse than death."

Rob looked up and saw the stunned faces of the audience members. Composing himself, he called for a commercial break, then promptly left the stage.

Bernie Lauter was waiting for him when he went backstage, his pink head starting to turn a brighter shade of red. "What the hell was that, Rob?" he demanded.

Rob put his hands on his hips and stared down at his boss. "I'll tell you what that was, Bernie. That was that manipulative little bitch trying to ruin my career!" He thrust an accusing finger in Kendra's direction like a weapon.

Bernie frowned. "What are you talking about, Rob? How could Kendra have possibly done anything?"

"Oh, why don't you open your eyes, Bernie? That last segment wasn't part of our original plan. She planted it there, to get me riled up so I'd lose my temper and this show would fail." Rob gave Kendra a look so icy it could have frozen the Atlantic. She matched his cold stare, not faltering once.

Bernie crossed his arms. "And why would she have done something like that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it had something to do with her little meeting this morning with Richard Armell!"

Bernie turned around and gazed at Kendra, wide-eyed with disbelief. "Kendra, is this true?"

Kendra put an innocent face on and replied, "I don't know who he's talking about. There was a nice older man who opened the door for me this morning, if that's who Rob means."

"Oh please, Bernie! Are you really going to believe her? Don't you find it odd that twice she's taken it upon herself to make changes to things the network has decided on for our show, and then she's meeting with the head of our main competition? She's playing you for a fool."

That touched the right nerve. Bernie swallowed and pointed outward. "Yes, I'm afraid Rob makes a good point. Kendra, please get your things and leave. Security will escort you out."

The green-haired witch didn't put up a fight. Shooting an eerie look at Rob, she smirked and allowed the uniformed guard to lead her out of the studio.

Bernie sighed as she left. "Even though this was the intern's doing, we still have quite a mess to clean up, Rob. Your…reaction to the story wasn't good for our image. We're going to have to do damage control."

"Of course, Bernie. I'll begin to—"

Rob's boss held up his hand. "No, no. Leave it to PR to take care of. You just go back to your office and cool down, all right?"

Rob glowered as he turned around and headed to his office. He'd been dismissed like a child who'd misbehaved. Didn't that idiot Lauter realize he'd been put on the spot? He'd only spoken the truth. The world had nothing but contempt for those who were ugly. And if you were born ugly, you'd better be smart or rich, because there was nothing else you could get out of life otherwise. It was just a sad fact of life – Rob didn't make the rules. He just abided by them.

He got to his office and plopped down into his leather seat. Grabbing the bottle of water off the top of the desk, he spun around to admire the large-scale prints of his stories in _Forbes, Businessweek, Broadcasting Weekly._

"Falling in love with yourself all over again, Rob?" an echoing voice called behind him.

Startled, he spun around quickly to see Kendra standing on the other side of the desk. He gaped. She looked different – her hair was no longer green, just a normal shade of light blonde gleaming in the overhead lights. Her gothic black leather clothes were gone, replaced by a long, simple white dress. The tattoos were gone too. She looked…pretty. Almost angelic.

But Rob recovered himself quickly. "What are you doing here?" he hissed. "Get out of here now before I call security."

"I'm here to set you straight. I had hoped that my changes to your talk show would subtlety nudge you in the right direction, but now I see that you're just as stubborn as Kyle. Now I know where he gets it from. So I have no choice."

Rob picked up the phone now, ready to dial security. "What are you yabbering about?" he snapped.

Kendra's green eyes bore into him, making his stomach and heart feel weak. "I thought that vanity was your great flaw, Rob, but it's more than that. You have no compassion for anyone. Not for Julie, not for Beryl, and certainly not for that boy who was in that accident. So you're going to have to learn it the hard way – just like your son."

Rob slowly began to lower the phone as he stared at her in shock. "You-you were the one who did that thing to Kyle. Who-what the hell are you?"

Ignoring Rob's question, Kendra said, "Your lesson begins tomorrow morning. Once you perform a single act of selfless love, it will be finished." She turned around as if to leave, only she was heading for the window instead of the door.

"You're not going to make me ugly like Kyle! You're not going to win!" he called out, his shaky voice sounding more like a plea than a threat.

Kendra stopped, turned around, and smiled wickedly at him. "Oh, don't worry, Rob," she purred. "I'm not going to take away your precious good looks."

Suddenly her dress seemed to get whiter, and brighter. Then her entire body began to glow, as if she were made of light. The light became so bright that Rob had to shield his eyes. It filled the room like a white-hot fire. And in the midst of the light, Rob heard Kendra's voice.

_I'm just going to take away everything else…_

And then the room was dimly lit and calm again, as if nothing had happened. Rob blinked and looked around his office, trying to take stock of what happened. But everything seemed normal. He could hear the sounds of the crew and staff members walking and talking in the hallway. His fax machine was chattering away with new communications. His blackberry was vibrating on the table.

Rob grabbed his office phone, dialed 0 for Reception. Brenda's thick voice met his ears. "Yes, Mr. Kingson?"

"That girl, Kendra," he demanded. "Is she still in the building?"

"No, sir. She was escorted out half an hour ago."

"She…couldn't be around here, could she?"

A pause. "Well…no, sir. They took her keypass and security was given her photo. There's no way she could have gotten back on the premises without us knowing."

Rob hung up the phone without saying goodbye. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. He must have been daydreaming. Yes, that was it. Kendra was just a troublemaker who'd been dealt with. He just needed to get some rest and he'd be fine.

But he wasn't fine. Shortly after he hung up with Brenda, a strange, tearing pain assaulted his head, unlike any headache he'd ever experienced. He tried to work, but he could barely focus, the computer screen's glare assaulting his eyes like stabbing knives of light.

He should have gone home to rest, but he couldn't. He had too much work to do. A little air, that's all he needed. He would just go outside for a little while and get some fresh air and get back to it.

He stumbled out of his office and onto the elevator, being hit with a horrible feeling of vertigo in addition to the tearing headache. The mechanical car lurched downward, and he thought he was going to collapse on the floor. Rob gripped the metal handle on the back wall of the elevator and held on for dear life as he plunged for fourteen floors.

Finally the car stopped on the ground floor and he fought to maintain his composure as he stepped out, although all he wanted to do was lie on the cool ground and shut his eyes. His body felt heavy and hot as he struggled to walk out of the lobby and onto the street.

"Are you all right, Mr. Kingson?" a voice called out to him, but he didn't bother to acknowledge it. He stumbled outside and began to walk, the faces of the pedestrians seeming to slush together and come apart.

People stared at him. He ran into some of them, getting angry shouts and curses and he wove unsteadily through the streets. Once or twice he swore he saw Kendra's cocky face, staring back at him triumphantly. The tearing pain was overtaking him, getting stronger and stronger until he could barely walk.

Finally he didn't care anymore. He ducked into an alleyway, and, not paying attention to the filthiness of the space, he leaned against a brick wall and sank to the ground. Finally he closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him.

* * *

He opened his eyes to a white, empty sky above him. Rob blinked, then looked around. It was morning. He must have slept in the alley the whole night. The horrible pain in his brain was gone, the vertigo had subsided. With a groan he pulled himself off of the dirty ground, and tried to brush himself off. He laughed bitterly to himself when he thought of how all the news stations would have a field day with this. _Rob Kingson found passed out in an alley. Intoxication suspected._

He went through his pockets, discovering with horror that his cell phone and wallet were missing. Had he been robbed while he was out? Perhaps he'd left them in his office. He wasn't sure now. In any case, he couldn't go back there looking like this. He was a mess. He'd go home, clean up, and then head back. Of course, he'd have to walk since he couldn't call for his driver, but he was up for it. He actually felt strong despite the horrible night he'd had previously.

He stepped out onto the street and began to walk the ten blocks back to his office. He felt a bit indignant. Hadn't anyone been looking for him? He wasn't that far from the office. Then again, they certainly weren't expecting to find him in an alley.

He arrived at his building slightly winded from his long walk. Jerry, the doorman, was standing outside, staring out grimly as he usually did.

"Morning, Jerry," Rob greeted him as he walked in.

Jerry frowned, then gave him a cursory once-over. "Good morning, sir," he replied.

Rob's brows furrowed. That was strange. Jerry greeted him with fair enthusiasm and opened the door for him. He didn't do it this time. Everyone had their off-days, though. _God knows I did yesterday_, Rob thought glumly to himself.

As Rob crossed the clean, white lobby and approached the elevators, he realized that he didn't have his keypass on him. Without it, he wouldn't be able to get up to his loft. Groaning in irritation, he walked over to the manager's office, where a tall, wiry brunette with far too much makeup and an orangey tan was sitting at the desk.

She gave him a half-hearted smile when he came in. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Rob Kingson, penthouse. I misplaced my key. Could you please let me in?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "I'm sorry, you must be mistaken. The penthouse is unoccupied at the moment."

Rob rolled his eyes. This woman was obviously new, because he'd never seen her there before. She must not have been familiar with all the tenants yet. "Actually, you're mistaken, Miss. I've been in the penthouse for ten years now. Now, please, I've had a very bad night, and I'd like to go to my apartment and get some rest."

"Only tenants are allowed upstairs, sir. Now if you're interested in learning more about leasing—"

"I don't need to learn about leasing, damnit! I've been living here for ten years, and I want to go upstairs! Obviously you know nothing about this building, otherwise, you'd know not to play these games!"

The woman leaned back in her chair. "I've been here for five years, sir, and we have no one by the name of Rob Kingson living here."

Rob threw up his hands. What was with this woman? All he wanted to do was go home and clean up for work. "Fine. Ask Jerry, then. He knows me."

"That's an excellent idea." The woman tapped her earpiece. A second later a muffled voice could be heard from it. "Jer? Dana. Could you come here, please? I have an issue."

_An issue_? Rob thought to himself. Oh he was so going to have this harpy's job taken away.

Less than a minute later, Jerry appeared. "Yes, hon?"

"Can you escort this guy out, please? He's mentally ill."

"Mentally ill!? Jerry, please, tell this woman who I am," Rob pleaded with the doorman.

Jerry looked at him with cold eyes. "I've never seen you before in my life, pal. Now get out before I throw you out."


	4. Chapter 4

It was all a joke.

An elaborate, cruel joke.

At least, that's what Rob repeated again and again in his mind as he was roughly pushed out of the building he lived in for ten years by a man he'd known for four of them. Somehow Dracula's daughter had gotten to those around him and they all agreed to be a part of this miserable, sick joke.

He twisted his head around to look at Jerry, who had the collar of his coat in a tight grip. "Jerry, please, whatever she's paying you to do this, I'll double it."

Jerry raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I think you ought to save your money for some help for yourself. Now, don't let me catch you around here again." He pushed Rob briskly out the door and onto the pavement.

Rob stumbled backwards and managed to keep his balance. Immediately he tried to run back to the building, but Jerry pushed him back again, using enough force that he fell backwards onto the concrete.

He stared up in shock at the doorman's cold, angry face. "You think I'm playing games, asshole? Beat it or I'm calling the cops!" He shut the door to the building behind him with a loud, final thud.

Rob slowly got to his feet, and brushed off his coat. "Loser!" someone called from across the street.

"Okay, don't panic Rob," he said softly to himself. "Don't panic."

Rob walked the ten blocks back to his office. He hated walking in to work looking like that – dirty, disheveled, and worn – but he had no choice. He needed help getting back into his home.

Brenda was just hanging up the phone at the reception desk when he approached it. Her pudgy face fell out of its smile when she looked him up and down.

Rob held up his hands. "I know, I know, I'm a mess. Did I leave my wallet in my office?"

Brenda narrowed her eyes. "I'm not sure, sir. Which office do you work in?"

Rob felt the blood drain from his face. Brenda was in on it too! What sort of hold did Kendra have on these people? Still, he'd learned from Jerry's treatment of him that it was better to keep his temper as long as he could. "My office is on the fifteenth floor, Brenda," he said carefully through clenched teeth. "The only office on that floor. The office I've had for seven years."

Brenda leaned forward grimly, the fat on her compressed jowls making her look all the more somber. "The fifteenth floor office belongs to Mr. Brick Dennison."

"B-Brick…" Rob sputtered, his eyes wide in horror. "And I suppose…you have no idea who I am?"

Brenda stared at him as though he were insane. "No. Should I?"

What the hell was going on? Disbelief and horror quickly turned to rage as he struggled to process this. "This has gone on long enough!" he exploded, banging his fist on the desk so hard that the Swarovski kitten Brenda kept on the surface jumped. "I don't know what that girl Kendra did to convince you all to go along with this, but I'm done!" He turned swiftly on his heel and headed for the elevators. He ignored Brenda's calls to stop, and tuned out her cries to security for assistance.

He might have been kept out of his home, but not his office. No one was going to keep him away from what he'd spent over twenty years struggling and sacrificing to earn. He strode menacingly towards the elevators and roughly shoved away the poor sap who was about to board it.

His heart was pounding in his ears as he rode the mechanical car up to his office. He tried to take a deep breath and calm himself. It was all a misunderstanding. He'd get to his office, see his name engraved in brass on the outer door. Julie would be standing there with her clipboard, ready to brief him on his agenda for the day. Bernie would probably be nearby too, wanting to discuss the week's priorities.

But as he got off the elevator, a horrible sight met his eyes. Instead of the brass plaque reading, "Rob T. Kingson," it read "Brick F. Dennison".

"No," Rob whispered. He was shaking his head from side to side, not even realizing it. He was completely numb with shock. He didn't even flinch or fight when two security officers yanked him back by the arms. He could faintly hear the exchange of words between familiar voices, but he still was in a fog.

They'd just about pulled him off of the floor and onto a waiting elevator when Rob snapped out of it, and screamed wildly like a banshee, "Nooo! That micro-brain and his lemoncello hair aren't taking my life!" He tried to wrench himself from their grasp, but he was overpowered at last, practically dragged out of the building and into a waiting police car.

At the police station, Rob was asked exactly what someone who'd violated the security of a place of business would be asked: who was he, what was he doing there. A search of his person yielded no identification, or, luckily for Rob, any weapons or other incriminating evidence. He tried to tell them who he was, but the NYPD's database had no record of a Rob Kingson. They quickly shuffled him off to a crowded cell and shut the door, forgetting him like so much miscellaneous clutter.

Rob hadn't expected jail to be so bright. The four white walls with a colorless floor to match, all illuminated by the buzzing fluorescent bulbs rigged into the ceiling – it made his eyes burn and he saw blue spots wherever he looked.

Of course, that was the least of the sensory assaults. There was the rank, stale smell of urine, the loud, cutting curses of the men around him, the seeming lack of any heat in the room. As he sat on the hard, wooden bench that encircled the little cell, Rob fought the urge to lean his head against the wall, fearing the layers of dirt and God-knows-what-else on the surface. After nearly an hour in the cell, however, he finally gave in and rested the back of his head against the wall, closing his eyes. He was so tired.

He knew that this was all real, that it was really happening to him. It was all too sharp and painful to be a dream. He had nearly come to resignation about his situation – nearly. This was how it would end for the great Rob Kingson – rotting away in prison, unknown, unremembered. Everything he ever worked for gone. It was his worst nightmare.

"Hey! Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!" a gruff voice shouted, followed by the clicking sound of fingers snapping together.

Rob's eyes flew open and turned upward to see the police officer standing above him. Had he drifted off? He'd completely lost track of time.

"What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Time to check out," the cop said, pulling him roughly to his feet and pushing him out of the cell and to the front desk.

"Check out?" Rob asked with a frown. "Where am I supposed to go?"

The man shook his head and stamped some papers. "Not my problem. Keep out of trouble, and you won't have to come back here again." When Rob just stood there, in shock, the cop raised his eyebrows and shooed him away.

The cold air hit Rob like a hard shove to the chest as he exited the police station. It was night, and though the city was lit up from buildings to streetlamps, pockets of darkness dotted the landscape. On a chilly night like this, all you wanted to do was get off of the street and into a warm house. But there was no such place waiting for Rob. Everything had passed him by.

He wandered the streets, trying to figure out what to do next. He'd never realized how loud the city was, never having really walked the streets like this before. It was practically deafening. He almost wanted to clutch his ears from the layers upon layers of car motors, horns, people's voices.

As he passed by a greasy burger joint on one of the street corners, his stomach growled ferociously and a gnawing pain hit him. Automatically his hand came to rest on his belly. He realized he hadn't eaten since this whole nightmare started. He was starving.

Cold, starving, and tired. This was a new experience for Rob. If that witch was trying to teach him a lesson, it was working.

Maybe all he needed to do was apologize. He was reasonable enough to admit that whatever Kendra had done was beyond his ability to change it on his own. And after all, Kendra was still a woman, and twisting women around his little finger was Rob's specialty.

But how to find her? He had no idea where she lived or what her number was. And he certainly wasn't willing to wait around and see if she'd find him. He wouldn't spend another day on the streets. He simply couldn't.

He'd call Kyle and ask him how to find his former classmate. Even if Kendra had been able to manipulate everyone else, she couldn't have changed his outlook. After all, Rob was Kyle's father – you couldn't forget the guy who gave you life.

Rob walked back to the greasy spoon, and before going in, gave himself a look in the glass. He looked a little run down, a day's worth of stubble on his face. But his clothes were high-end and still in good shape, so that would have to count for something. He just had to play it cool and not look desperate.

He strode in, trying to look as casual as possible. He exhaled in relief when he saw that it was a young girl at the counter and not a guy. Being able to turn up the sex appeal just a notch would help.

"Hi," he said to her, flashing his most enchanting smile. "I've got myself in a bit of a bind. I got separated from my son while we were on a tour of the city, and he's got my cell phone and wallet. I just need to call him and give him directions on where to find me. Would it be all right if I used your phone?"

"Sure!" the girl exclaimed, flashing a yellow, crooked smile that Rob tried not to wince at. She brought him a black cordless phone.

Rob dialed the Kyle's number, trying to look as casual as possible. He had to dial it from memory, but fortunately for him, he was excellent at remembering complex sequences of digits. It had been extremely helpful when he had to do interviews and pull random statistics out of his head at the last minute. His heart tightened when he thought back to his old life.

The phone didn't ring. Instead it went straight to voicemail, and instead of Kyle's voice, it was the older, gruff voice of a salesman that met Rob's ears.

Rob held the phone away from him in shock. Had he dialed the wrong number? Avoiding the waitress's concerned stare, he dialed again, only to get the same stranger's voice on the other line. He was certain he'd dialed the right number. He'd paid for Kyle's phone, after all.

Gently he put the phone on the counter and began to walk away, ignoring the girl's offer to be of any further assistance. He walked to very back of the diner and sat down at an empty booth, not wanting to go out into the freezing darkness again if he could help it.

Rob's heart was pounding. He was beginning to develop a suspicion, but it was just too horrible to be true. No, it couldn't be what he thought it was.

"Having fun, Rob?" a voice asked him. Startled, Rob looked up quickly to find Kendra sitting casually across from him at the booth.

"How did you…" Rob began to ask. He hadn't seen her come in and sit down. Where had she come from?

She held up her hand to interrupt. "Not important. What is important is for you to understand what's happened, so that you can start to fix it."

Rob laughed bitterly. "It's an elaborate practical joke you've played on me. You've gotten everyone I know in on it."

Kendra's eyes twinkled like stars. "It's no joke. This is reality, or rather, an alternate reality to the one you knew. A reality where you never existed."

"You must be on crack to think I'd believe that."

"Oh? How do you explain the police department's database having no record of you? How would the newsstation have been able to remove your name and face from everywhere in the building overnight?"

"You've….pulled some strings."

She laughed. "Oh yes, I have. I've tugged on the building blocks of time and space in order to teach you a lesson. I hope you can appreciate it."

Rob rolled his eyes. "Just what lesson do I need to learn? That 'it's a wonderful life' like that God-awful movie?"

"Quite the contrary. I'm trying to show you that your life isn't wonderful – not by half. You think you've made an impact by pushing away all the things that matter most, but you haven't. I have shown you that the world doesn't revolve around you – that it can do quite well without you. Now it's up to you to make your life mean something."

"My life did mean something!" Rob snapped. "I led the life everyone would kill to have. And you've taken it away from me. Just like you did to Kyle."

"Kyle? Oh yes, finally, you think of him!" Kendra cried sarcastically. She shook her head coldly at Rob. "I wish I could say that the spell I've cast is purely a lesson in ethics, but it's also an act of avenging. You need to pay for the pain you caused your son."

"Back off," Rob growled at her. "I made sure he was taken care of. What does it matter anyway? He's happy and healthy again, and traipsing through Europe with that girl he shacked up with. He's fine."

Kendra looked down. "No, he's not."

Rob frowned. "What do you mean? What did you do?"

"What does it matter to you? Have you even wondered why you can't reach Kyle by phone?"

"I…got the number wrong, that's all."

She shook her head, her eyes full of pain. "You got the number right. He's just not there, that's all."

"Well, where is he?"

Kendra sighed. "You really don't know? Rob…Kyle doesn't exist. He was never born."


	5. Chapter 5

"You're an absolute psychopath," Rob told Kendra. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "I can't believe I'm sitting here listening to this!"

"But you are, nonetheless," Kendra pointed out calmly. "The reason being, deep down inside, even in the midst of all your doubt that this is really happening, you know that it's true."

"But-but you can't just make someone not exist!"

Kendra sighed, reached out across the table, and took Rob's arm. Rob grimaced and tried to snatch his hand away, but the young girl was amazingly strong and he couldn't break her hold. She pulled up his sleeve, and touched his forearm with a glossy black fingernail. At her touch, a black, sinuous mark like a tattoo appeared on his skin, branching quickly, twirling like a poisonous root. Rob gasped, horrified, and tried to pull away again, but Kendra's grip was like iron. "Stop struggling and look," she ordered sternly.

Rob looked. The root began to form a tree, and it was massive-looking in spite of it being on a relatively small surface like an arm. Branches began to form on the tree, getting smaller and smaller as they stretched away from the trunk.

"This tree is your life," Kendra explained to him. "You are the heartroot. Your root connects to other roots, other people, so that all human beings are connected."

Rob narrowed his eyes as he looked at it. "But…this tree is black. It looks rotted."

Kendra smiled darkly. "Yes. It manifests the blackness of your heart. You have no love for others. You use them, like one would use a tool. You throw them away when you no longer can use them. Your selfishness has caused the tree to rot."

Kendra pointed to one of the largest branches on the black tree, and instantly the tattoo shifted focus, magnifying and bringing that particular branch into wider, clearer view. Unlike the rest of the blackened, sick tree, this branch was bright green and healthy.

"This branch is Kyle," Kendra told him. "He represented the one bit of goodness in your life, the only thing you've ever done that was worthwhile. But," Kendra made a slashing motion over the trunk of the tree. "I've cut you off from the world. Without its root, the branch can't exist." With that, the green, healthy branch abruptly disappeared.

"And," Kendra added, "All the good that Kyle has done is gone. All the connections to other roots he made are gone."

As she spoke, the tattoo disappeared, and Rob let out a sigh of relief. He was terrified that the mark was permanent.

"I've just told you that your son's life has been cut away, and all you can feel is glad that the tattoo is gone," Kendra chided, reading his mind. "So far, Robbie, you're quite the lost cause."

Rob stared at her, desperation finally beginning to replace his anger and disbelief. "Name your price. Whatever you want, I can get it for you."

Kendra laughed. "You already know my price: a selfless act of love. And you just can't afford it." She rose gracefully from the table, looking down at Rob the way a god would inspect an insect. "You have a long way to go. Good luck." She turned and left the restaurant.

"Wait, wait!" he cried out, scrambling out from the table to catch her. But even though he was just a few feet away from her, even though she was moving at a calm, leisurely pace, Rob somehow couldn't reach her. She seemed to disappear from his vision as he reached the door to the restaurant.

Robmade his way out of the burger joint and stumbled out onto the street again, Kendra's words ricocheting in his mind like a bullet – _Kyle doesn't exist. _It made sense, if Rob was willing to accept what happened as something other than an elaborate hallucination caused by an unchecked brain tumor – if Rob never had a life here, then neither could Kyle, being his blood progeny.

He hadn't been close to his son in the last year (truth be told, he'd never been close to Kyle, nor anyone else, ever, in his life), but it was a shock to his system all the same. As self-centered as Rob was, he was still able to feel something like pity for his son never having the chance to live.

Rob wandered the dark streets like a zombie, keeping no tabs on how long he was actually doing it. Nothing was clear in front of his eyes; colors and shapes swirled and smeared like Vaseline on a camera lens. Occasionally he thought he could see Kendra's smug face peering out at him from the faces of others he passed.

There was no one to help him. No one would offer him a warm place to go, or a meal, or even a drink of water. No one cared, because no one knew he was alive. He had only felt this helpless once before in his life – when he'd accidentally gotten separated from his mother in a department store. There was a terrible feeling of panic, a cold slice of fear in the back of his head in not knowing if he'd be lost in the store forever, if he'd ever see his mother again.

He was so cold. He put his ungloved hands to his mouth and blew into them. He stood under a shop awning, hoping to keep away the fierce winds. He pulled his coat a little closer to him. He could feel his toes like ice in his socks.

The coldness was actually the lesser of the evils. He was so hungry. He realized he hadn't eaten since the omelet at Café Europa. It felt like a lifetime ago now. He'd never felt hunger like this. He remembered times when he'd worked through lunch or hadn't had time for breakfast, and he thought he was "starving." That had been nothing. His stomach felt like it was cramping; he was light-headed and weak.

A couple came out of the shop Rob was standing in front of, happy in their own little piece of the world. The man had a takeout bag in his hand. Looking at his date, then at the bag, he shrugged and threw it into a wastebasket a few feet away, then sauntered off with his girl on his arm.

Rob eyed the brown lump on the top of the pile of trash longingly. What was in it – a greasy burger on a stale bun? An oil-ridden slice of pizza? He didn't know, nor did he care. His empty stomach compelled him to lunge forward, snatch the bag, and slip back into the shadows under the awning.

He tore open the paper bag to reveal a soggy mess of a partially eaten sub sandwich. He pushed it towards his mouth eagerly, like a lover's first kiss, his teeth and tongue embraced by pungent bologna and sharp mustard. Two days ago, Rob Kingson would have never even considered wasting his money on a fat-laden mess like this. It would have been poison to his perfect body. Now, it was as delicious and life-giving as mother's milk.

He was into his fourth bite when his chewing slowed and he looked up from the sandwich in horror. What was he doing? He was Rob Kingson, for God's sake, and here he was, eating from the garbage. This was wrong, so very, very wrong. He was supposed to be stronger than this. It had only been a day and a half that he'd had his life taken away; he wasn't going to cave under the pressure.

He was going to find a way out of this. Rob was an intelligent man, well-educated, well-read. Even with his rational brain he had long moved away from his initial theory that this was all a miserable practical joke being played on him. He understood that this was an alternate reality in which he didn't exist, and he could not expect to get help or comfort from any of the people he once knew.

He was, however, having trouble accepting that this was the product of a magic spell. But what else could it be? If Rob was willing to concede that magic existed, like it did in fairy tales, then that had to mean that spells could be broken. He just needed to find the right way to do it.

He needed to learn more about Kendra's power. He would go to the library, many libraries, whatever it took to figure out how to make his way out from her influence. He would find people who'd be willing to help him. He was handsome, after all – that had to count for something. People were naturally attracted to beauty.

Yes, everything was going to be fine, he assured himself. He just needed to make it through the rest of the night. He was strong enough. He sneered at the disgusting, fatty sandwich he'd been eating and tossed it back into the trash. He pulled his coat around him again and tried to find a spot which would give him shelter from the cold winds.

Finally he found a back street that sat behind a cluster of rowhouses. He climbed some stairs attached to one of the houses and sat down on it, resolving to stay there until morning. Rob leaned his heavy head on his hand and tried to fight off exhaustion, but it began to inevitably claim him.

He'd just began to doze when he felt a hard shove against his shoulders, knocking him off balance. He didn't have time to recover himself and he fell forward onto the cold, hard ground. His lips and left cheek were being smashed into the concrete by a dirty, sneakered foot.

"Give us your money, man. Or you die," a voice hissed at him.

"I-I don't have any!" Rob cried out in a muffled voice.

Rob's claim was answered with a sharp kick to the ribs. He gasped out his breath and tried to move away from his attacker, but others surrounded him and there was nowhere to go.

"Don't give me that shit, asshole," the punk snapped at him. "I see that coat you're wearing. Gimme your wallet."

"I'm telling you, I don't have one!" Rob wheezed. "I….lost it, this morning!"

Rob heard a tiny snapping noise. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the gang members holding a boxcutter knife, the metal blade shining in the lamplight.

"Fine. We'll just take what we want," the gang leader hissed.

Rob's eyes widened in terror as the blade began to get closer and closer to him…


	6. Chapter 6

Rob backed away from the knife coming at him, heedless of the gang members standing behind him, ready to attack. He desperately tried to remember his Krav Maga training, hoping to fight his way out. But fear overruled memory and he could not act. All he could do, as the thug lunged at him with the knife, was to jerk himself out of the hold of the others so that the blade sliced through the arm of his coat instead of his chest.

Just then, the loud, piercing blast of an air horn ripped through the night. Rob and his attackers cringed at the sound, holding their ears.

"What the f-" the gang leader started, just as another ear-splitting blast was emitted.

Rob looked up through pained eyes to see a figure standing at the end of the alleyway, holding the horn. Split-second thinking made him realize what he needed to do. As the third horn blast hit the scene, Rob held his ears and ducked out of the reach of his attackers, who were dismayed but too shaken by the horn's screaming noise to stop him.

"Come on, come on!" the figure yelled out to him as Rob ran towards him. Once Rob made it out of the alley, the person let out another blast of the airhorn to subdue the gang once again.

Rob's savior, a smaller, older man in ragged clothes, pushed on Rob's shoulder. "Come on, we gotta run!" he told him.

The two of them took off running, Rob following the lead of his rescuer. The man led him on a flight for nearly two blocks straight, then suddenly turned sharply down a street corner. Rob pulled himself to a quick stop, nearly falling over as he, too, ducked around the corner. It was a row of dumpsters that lined the street, and Rob flattened himself against the wall of a building and looked out at the main road to see if the gang had caught up to him.

They hadn't. Rob shut his eyes and exhaled, feeling his heart pound so vigorously in his chest it felt like it could explode. Taking a few cleansing breaths he turned his attention towards the back of the street, to his rescuer.

The man was bent over, clutching his knees as he panted and coughed. Rob sized him up quickly. He was homeless, evidently, judging by the shabby clothes he was wearing and the scraggly beard on his face. Rob's face instinctively contorted into a look of disgust, and he was tempted to make a quick break for it before the man had recovered.

But he stayed. The man had saved his life, and seemed to have a difficult time recovering from the run. He was clutching his sides now, in fact. Just as Rob began to fear he'd have to help the man, he looked over at Rob, a smile gracing his haggard face. "You sure do know how to piss off the wrong people, son," the man told Rob between heavy breaths.

Rob scowled. "I had it under control," he grumbled.

"Oh sure you did. You and the Yellow Knives looked like real good pals. Word of advice, son: if you're going to survive out here, you'd better learn where the gang turf is and where it isn't."

"Excuse me? I don't need to learn anything. I don't belong out here!" Rob angrily turned to leave.

"None of us do!" the man called out.

Rob stalked out onto the street, holding his arm. People began to part the way for him, which escaped his attention at first, until he ran into another man who looked at him in surprise, then disgust, then fear and quickly walked away from him. Then Rob realized why: they were treating him like the hundreds of homeless people who lived in the city. He brushed off the hurt, focusing his energy on being angry instead.

"Hey look, I'm sorry," a voice said to him. Startled, Rob turned to see the homeless man who'd saved him walking briskly at his side. He hadn't even heard the man walk up to him.

"I didn't mean to bust your balls. I know it's hard when you're first out here – you don't know your head from your ass, and you keep wondering how you got here. I'm Ben, by the way. And you'd better do something about your arm."

Rob stopped in his tracks, frowning in annoyance. "What's wrong with my arm?"

Ben jerked his head at Rob's hand gripping the opposite arm. "You got cut. You're bleeding. You'd better get that thing sterilized and taped up before it gets infected."

Rob groaned. "Fine. I'll go to the hospital."

"You got insurance?"

"Well, of course I do! I…" then it dawned on Rob. He didn't have insurance. He didn't have any sort of identification. He was no one, with no way to pay. A hospital wouldn't take him unless he was practically dying.

Rob's new acquaintance smiled knowingly. "I know where you can get it taken care of and they won't charge you. Come on, it's not far." Without waiting for an answer, Ben turned back in the direction they'd just come from.

Rob hesitated. He didn't know this vagrant, didn't know where he was leading him. He looked down at his arm. He could feel his blood matting against his skin, feeling the searing burn of the cut. He had to get it treated. He relented and began to follow the bum who'd saved him. After all, what more did he have to lose?

Ben led him down several streets until he came to a stop in front of a clean, well-lit building. Ben cupped his eyes and peered into the clear glass, then knocked loudly on it.

"The clinic is closed at this hour," Ben explained to Rob. "But Mike is probably still in there. He manages it. If it's an emergency, he'll let us in."

They waited for nearly a minute, then Ben knocked again. Finally a sloppy-looking, ginger haired man with a poorly-groomed beard came into view. Narrowing his eyes, he unlocked the front door and opened it just a crack, just enough to peer out at them.

"Ben?" the man asked. "What is it? You know I can't let you in right now."

"I know, Mike, I'm sorry. But this guy here"—Ben gestured to Rob, who automatically gripped his arm for show—"he got cut by some gang members trying to steal his coat. Can you patch him up?"

Mike hesitated, shifting his wary gaze back and forth between Ben and Rob. Finally he sighed, stepping back to let them enter. "All right, come on in. I'll get the first aid kit."

Ben followed Mike into the clinic. Rob lingered at the door, still doubting his decision to come here. What if – and he knew it was probably a large presumption – what if all of this really had been a massive prank pulled on him? How would it look for Rob Kingson to be found in a government-funded clinic for druggies and bums? Still, this cut on his arm was real. And in spite of nearly every fiber of his being telling him to run, to find another way, there was at least one fiber, one steely thread of fear telling him that he needed to stay.

Rob looked around the small, white institution, trying not to gag on the smell of Lysol, when a photo of the wall opposite of him caught his eye. It was a woman with dark hair, smiling over her shoulder. Squinting, he walked up to it, thinking that the person in it looked familiar.

Sure enough, he recognized the girl in the framed photo. It was that girl Lindy, the one Kyle had moved into Rob's apartment without his permission. Rob scoffed when he saw her. Of course she'd be in a place like this. Rob knew she was trouble the moment he saw her.

But then he read the caption at the bottom of Lindy's photo: "_A hard worker, a tireless defender, a loving friend. Always in our hearts."_

Ben came to stand next to Rob and looked at the photo as well. Ben shook his head. "Damn shame. Poor kid. I miss her."

Rob felt dread knot up his stomach. "What happened to her?" he asked, all his previous indictments of Lindy forgotten.

"Found the kit!" Mike called from down the hallway, taking Ben's attention away from Rob's question. Rob gave Lindy's photo a remorseful look, then walked over to where Mike now stood, at the reception desk.

"Sit down," Mike told him, pulling out an unbalanced plastic chair. Rob sat down on it and removed his coat. The cut was all but covered by a black clot of blood on his arm. Mike put on a pair of rubber gloves and began to wash the wound.

"You're lucky…what did you say your name was?" Mike asked.

Rob gave his name with some reluctance, and a little sadness too. Yesterday he wouldn't have had to. Everyone on the east coast knew his name, knew his face. Now he was a nobody, just one of the ordinary people he'd spent years trying to avoid.

"Well, Rob, you're lucky this cut wasn't deeper. You won't need stitches, but it definitely will need to be sterilized and kept clean."

"Yeah, I'm just one lucky guy," Rob muttered bitterly.

When Mike was done and packing up the kit, Ben remarked, "You're here late, Mike. Studying for a test?"

"Yeah, the time got away from me," Mike replied with a smile.

"You said that Rob needs to keep his arm clean, and the clinic opens in just a few hours. Maybe Rob should stay here so it can get treated in the morning? I could stay with him too—you know, just to make sure he's okay."

Mike frowned. "Clever, Ben. Very clever."

"Aw Mike, I'm just looking out for my friend here," Ben replied with wide-eyed innocence, wrapping an arm around Rob's shoulders. Rob did his best not to shudder from the man's grubby touch.

"Ben," Mike chided.

"Special circumstances. Mike, you know me. You know I'd never steal anything. And we'll be out of here when you come back at six to get ready to open." When Mike was still hesitant, Ben added, "Just six hours, Mike. No harm done."

The red-haired man sighed. "All right, Ben. All right. But you'd better be ready to be out when I get back. And you two stay in the supply room – don't go near the beds, the kitchen, or the medicine cabinets, or I'm out of a job, you understand me?"

"The supply room?!" Rob cried in outrage.

Ben elbowed him in the ribs. "Shut up. It's either there, or the street," he whispered. To Mike he said, "Of course. We'll be out when you get back. It's real generous of you."

Now Rob realized why Ben had brought him here – it was a chance to get a warm place out of the cold for himself. Quite the con. It brought Rob a small grain of comfort to know that in spite of that witch Kendra's claims about "love" and "goodness," deep down Rob was right: people were all the same, just out for themselves.

So Mike led them to the small, enclosed room they used for their supplies – or what little they had to call supplies. He pulled a couple of ratty blankets from one of the shelves and handed them to Ben and Rob. "Six o'clock," he reminded them.

"Absolutely," Ben agreed, and Mike left, shut the door behind him.

Immediately Ben got to the floor, pulling one of the blankets around him. Rob stood there in horror. "You don't mean…you're actually going to…sleep here?" he said in disbelief.

Ben looked up at Rob as though he'd just said the stupidest thing in the world. "It's a warm, dry place out of the cold and rain, and comes with a blanket. This is the best I've had for a long time. Now I'm going to sleep. You can stand there all night if you want, but keep it quiet. I need my rest."

For a while Rob did stand there. He didn't know how – he couldn't do this. A man like him, on the cold, dirty floor? But what else could he do? Ben was right: it was out of the cold, and Rob didn't have anywhere else to go. His closest friends and colleagues would call the police on him if he tried to beg them for help, because they didn't know him. This might the best Rob would have for a long time.

Finally he got down on the floor, sitting – not lying. He reluctantly pulled the torn wool blanket around him and held his head in his hands. He caught a glimpse of his bandaged arm out of the corner of his eye. That guy Mike really had done a good job of cleaning and dressing his wound. It wouldn't get infected – at least, not tonight.

Rob sat up for nearly an hour, hoping to stay awake until the morning so that he could leave and find a way out of this mess. But his head began to get too heavy to hold up and he finally reclined, pulling the blanket around him.

As he lay on the floor, staring up at the dim bulb embedded in the ceiling, he made a promise to himself: he would find a way out of this. It didn't matter what he had to do, what he had to give up, he would do it. He would get his life back, no matter what it cost him.

* * *

_Author's note: if you're like me, and you've watched _Beastly_ to an obscene amount, you'll recognize the Ben in my story as the homeless man Lindy gives a sandwich to during her time at the clinic, when Kyle was following her. Also Mike is the guy that gives Lindy the satchel for handing out food and supplies to the homeless on the streets._


	7. Chapter 7

"I woke up to – not from – a nightmare. I wasn't important or famous anymore. It was horrible. Everything I'd worked for all my life was gone. It didn't even matter that I was good-looking. Nobody cared about me. Nobody wanted me."

Lana, Rob's date for the night, just shrugged and handed him a glass of wine. "Just a dream."

"I'm telling you, Lana – it was the strangest dream I ever had."

Rob took a quick sip of his Chardonnay and gazed out of the window of the limo, out at the glimmering lights of the city, both vertical and horizontal. He gently tugged on his bow tie, feeling it a bit out of place, but never worrying that he looked anything less than dapper in his tuxedo.

To her credit, Lana was stunningly beautiful that night – a fair compliment to Rob. Her shimmering blue gown seemed like it was sewn exclusively for her body, and her flame-colored tresses curled and framed her Botticelli angel face. She smiled gently. "Dreams are nothing to worry about, Babe. Besides, we're going to have a good time tonight."

"Just the idea of everyone forgetting me…unnerving," Rob insisted.

"I'm sure it is. But as long as you don't forget them, everything will be okay," Lana said, reaching out to warmly stroke his hand.

Rob smiled uneasily at her surreal words. The limo eventually pulled up to the Plaza, where the event was being held that night. It was the event of the season – everyone who was anyone would be there. Rob wouldn't—couldn't—miss this. The driver got out and held open the door for Lana and Rob.

Lana pulled out her ticket from her clutch purse and gave it to the attendant, who then stepped aside so she could go in. The red-suited man turned his cold, black eyes to Rob. "Ticket, sir?" he asked.

Rob fumbled, patting down his suit to see if he could find it. But there were no pockets in his tuxedo. He turned quickly back to where the limo had been, thinking he might have left it there, but the car was gone. Lana was already walking into the Plaza, her gown floating behind her. "Lana, help me!" Rob called out.

"Oh Rob – you can't honestly expect me to wait for you," Lana responded, not looking back at him as she disappeared into the crowd.

Rob tried to follow her, but the usher held him back. "No ticket, no entry," he stated bluntly.

"But you don't understand. I'm Rob Kingson – I belong in there!" he protested.

The usher pulled out a long – an incredibly long – list from his pocket and scanned it with a robot-like efficiency. "No such person on the list," the usher told him.

"That's impossible. I'm Rob Kingson. I host a talk show. I've been on TV for well over ten years! I attend every event the Plaza hosts."

The usher smiled cruelly. "You're nobody. You don't belong here." His voice seemed to elevate in pitch.

Rob gaped at him. From behind him a large crowd of people had grown, angry people wanting to get in and were tired of being held up. They began to throw things at his back, shouting for his removal.

"Stop it! I belong here and I have the right to go in!" he insisted to the crowd. When he turned back to the usher, he noticed that it was no longer a man with black eyes, but Kendra standing there.

"Don't you know I've taken everything from you – even your dreams?" she said in a nasty voice. She dug her little claws in his shoulders, making him wince, shaking him. "Wake up, Rob!"

_Wake up!_

_Wake up!_

"Wake up, Rob!"

Rob's eyes flew open to find Ben's gaunt, scraggly face in front of him. He gasped and pulled himself out of Ben's grasp, startled.

Ben just chuckled. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. We gotta go. We told Mike we'd be out by six, remember?"

Rob groaned and sat up, looking around him. He'd only been dreaming that he'd gotten his life back. Glumly he stood and dusted himself off. Just two days ago he was waking up in his plush, king-sized bed in his penthouse apartment overlooking the city, ready to tape his talk show. Now he was waking up in a dark and dirty supply closet in a clinic for druggies and lowlifes.

"How's the arm?" Ben asked him.

Rob ran his hand over it. "I'll live."

"Well, Mike will look at it, and then we can go to the Episcopal church on 12th. They run a soup kitchen on Thursdays. It's early enough that we might be able to get in and get something to eat."

"Things just keep getting better and better," Rob muttered.

Ben shrugged. "Well, you don't have to go. It was just a suggestion." He left the supply closet.

Rob followed with some reluctance. Sure enough, Mike was waiting in the office area, relieved to see the two of them ready to leave. Rob rolled up his sleeve and presented his arm to Mike.

Mike gave it a cursory look, then reapplied some antiseptic ointment and a bandage. "Try to keep it clean," he told Rob.

"I'll do my best," Rob snapped sarcastically. He rolled down his sleeve, put on his coat, and began to leave.

"You're not going to survive with that attitude."

Rob stopped and turned around at the sound of Mike's comment. "You want thanks? Oh, thank you so much for putting a band-aid on my arm. You should be canonized as a saint."

Mike shook his head. "I don't need your thanks. I'm just giving some friendly advice. I've seen guys like you come through this place more times than I can count. Life is the great humiliator. Learn to take the help when you get it."

"I don't need anyone's help. I'll get myself out of this on my own, the way I've always have. So thanks for your advice, but save it for some other loser who doesn't have my gifts." Rob sauntered out of the clinic.

Once Rob was outside, he practically sprinted to 12th Street. He was starving, but he'd be damned if he was going to let on to anyone, much less Ben or that slob Mike. Ben had enough of a jump on him that Rob could probably avoid him if he played it right. He'd grab a handful of whatever the church was giving out and eat it on the way to the library to research a way to break Kendra's spell.

The line at the church was ridiculously long. Rob stood impatiently at the end, trying not to attract any attention. Nonetheless he found himself observing the other people waiting for a meal. Most of them looked exactly how you'd expect people in a soup kitchen to look like: dirty and disheveled, wearing a lost, bewildered look. But there were others, people that Rob didn't expect. People dressed in blue collar uniforms, common but clean and neat. Children clearly dressed for school in pressed pants and toting backpacks. Primly dressed older people, so put together they looked like they were there for the church's Sunday services, not the soup kitchen. Rob was surprised. These people didn't need a handout – it didn't make sense. Were there really that many people who went hungry, even with having homes, cars, jobs?

"So you were able to make it after all," a voice said. Rob turned to find Ben standing in line behind him. Rob scowled in irritation. He couldn't seem to rid himself of this lowlife. He turned back and ignored him.

But Ben persisted. "You made good time. There will probably still be some fruit and toast left by the time we get up there." Rob still refused to answer.

"Oh don't waste your time, Ben," another man in line remarked. "The stockbroker's too good to talk to you. Give it a couple weeks and that'll change."

"No, not a stockbroker," another man chimed in. "He's got that "entitled dick" look to him. I say lawyer."

Laughter broke out around them. Rob clenched his jaw tightly but refused to say a word.

"Aw leave him be, guys," Ben chided. "He just can't believe he's here, that's all."

As the laughter died away, Rob still wouldn't say anything, but he did turn his head to the side, towards Ben, acknowledging the man's defense of him.

There wasn't much left at the serving tables once Rob got to the front – just some toast, cookies, and a few small cups of juice. He took what he could and, despite his original plan to just leave with the food, he found an empty table near the back and started eating. The toast was dry and stiff, the cookies stale and tasteless, the juice watered down and sour. But oh, after not having a meal for well over a day, it all tasted delicious to Rob.

Halfway into his meal, he looked around to see Ben sitting at a table just a few feet away from him. Quickly finishing off the juice and toast, Rob walked over to him and sat down. He was curious about something. And Ben was probably the only one who could tell him. The older man gave a half-smile when he saw Rob.

"Ben," he began. "That girl in the photo on the wall of the clinic. Who is she?"

Ben's smile faded away and he chewed glumly. "Her name was Lindy. She used to work at the clinic."

"_Was_?" Rob was confused. A couple of the other men who'd stood in line with them stopped eating and listened intently.

"Yeah. _Was_. She was killed about a year ago."

Rob felt like he'd been hit in the back of the head with something cold. No, that was wrong. Very wrong. Rob had met her just a few months ago when he went to see Kyle. Lindy was seeing the world with his son right now, helping Kyle to squander his money. He pressed on, trying to sound as casual as possible. "Oh? How did it happen?"

Ben stared into the cloudy cup of juice he was drinking. "Her father was an addict. Always getting in trouble with his dealers because he couldn't pay them. Well, one night one of the guys he owed had enough, and threatened him. I….don't know what happened exactly after that, but the guy decided to get even by taking away the only thing of value Lindy's dad had."

"His daughter," Rob concluded.

"Yep. The sorry son of a bitch OD'd and killed himself after that. I just wish he would have done it sooner so his daughter didn't have to suffer too."

There were sounds of agreement that rose up from the others around them. Rob looked around. They all must have gone to the clinic and knew Lindy.

"What's it to you?" Ben asked. "Did you know her?"

Rob shrugged nonchalantly. "No, don't think so. Just curious."

Ben grunted and said nothing more. Rob took the hint and left the shelter.

Having been chauffeured around for most of his time in the city, Rob never realized how long it took to get from place to place. All the complaining he did to his driver about not getting somewhere fast enough was now such a minor inconvenience. His feet were aching in his Tanino Criscis. And he still had several more blocks to go to get to the library.

Still, he would have rather focused on his blistering feet than the other thing plaguing his mind: that girl, Lindy. What had Kendra done to her? How had the witch changed things so much that the girl was now dead? But why should he care what happened to her? Rob had only met the girl that one time.

The more he thought about it – deep, deep down – he knew why he cared. Because Kyle had loved that girl. And Rob loved Kyle.

The library – a multi-story white brick behemoth – just about met Rob's standards for aesthetics and cleanliness. It had just opened for the day and was mostly empty, which allowed Rob the luxury of appearing to know where he was going. He wouldn't use the computers – not yet. You had to have photo ID in order to use the computers, which he obviously didn't have. Rob decided to do it the old fashioned way – searching all the non-fiction sections until he found the subject he was looking for. He might have been forgotten by the world, but he'd be damned if he was going to ask for help finding books on witchcraft.

After a bit of running around, he finally figured out that the books he needed, found a secluded corner of the library, sat on the floor and began to read. After less than half an hour, Rob gave up on reading and began to flip through the pages of the books quickly, impatiently. Many of the books said the exact same things: about the origins, tracing the practice of witchcraft and magic to tribes in Africa and the Americas, by shamans and the Kalku and European Wicca.

He pored over the books for hours, finding the same things in all the books. There was one thing in one particular book that caught his eye: a description of a race of magical beings, whose names he couldn't pronounce, but whose name translated loosely to "The Watchers." They took human form, serving as guides and advisors to mortals. Their power was great, but their spells had an element of reciprocity to them: once they cursed a mortal, they were unable to remove it. Only the cursed mortal had the power to save themselves.

Intrigued, Rob left the books in a pile on the floor and went downstairs to the computer lab. Biding his time, he waited until he saw one of the users, a little old Asian lady, get up from the computer and leave without signing out. Taking the opportunity, he sat down and tried searching for "Watchers" in all the available search engines. He didn't find anything more than what he'd already read.

Finally, Rob decided to look for information on something else – something that had been bothering him all day. He googled the name "Lindy," "clinic," and "murder."

And then he found the news reports: Seventeen year old Lindy Taylor, a promising young woman who went to a prestigious private school called Buckston, was shot and killed while walking home from her job at a local clinic. The perpetrator, Victor Gutierrez, was revealed to be a drug dealer who knew Lindy's father.

"How's the research going, Rob?"

Rob jumped at the question. He turned to see Kendra sitting at the unoccupied computer station next to him. She was dressed in an elegant red silk dress, her now-honey blond hair in loose ringlets at the base of her neck. As surprised as he was by her appearance out of thin air, he couldn't help but wonder why she didn't dress like this all the time – why she dressed like a vampire instead during her first day at the network.

Kendra smiled. "Still judging books by their covers, eh?" she asked, reading his mind.

"I supposed you've come to gloat," Rob grumbled.

"Oh no, not at all. I've come to make sure you're all right. All in all, I'd say you're doing quite well – considering. Oh, and by the way, trying to figure out who I am and what I am with all of your intensive studying isn't going to break the spell. But I'm sure you've figured that out by now."

Rob smiled wryly. "There's always a loophole, if you look hard enough. I'm going to find it and get myself out of this."

Kendra laughed lightly. "Well, good luck with that." She glanced at the computer screen, at the news reports of Lindy's murder. "It's nice to see that you haven't spent all of your time just trying to find ways to benefit yourself. That's a start."

Rob glanced at the screen and shrugged as casually as he could. "I was just curious. I was just surprised that my not existing could cause something that big to happen."

Kendra pursed her lips together. "It was _Kyle_ not existing that caused this to happen. Kyle wasn't there to save Lindy from her father's dealer, to take her into the house you banished him to in order to keep her safe. Here," she said, waving her fingers, "Let me show you."

Before Rob could protest, he was hit with a heavy wave of white light. He couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't feel. Then things came into clear view and he could see Kyle. But he wasn't there with him; it was more like Rob was watching everything unfold in front of him, like a movie. Kyle was dressed up, at a dance of some kind. He was talking to Lindy, then he was confronting Kendra. Rob could almost see the witch's spell being cast, see the fluorescent green tendrils of magic emanating from her and stretching out to Kyle, enveloping him.

Kyle looked at his mutilated reflection in the window with horror. He went to his father, pleading for him to fix it, and all Rob could do was put him away to avoid the embarrassment and shame. Rob saw Kyle's loneliness, his sadness, his hopelessness. His son would stare out the window to the rest of the world, watching time pass and his despair mount more and more.

And then, the girl came along. Dressed in her torn hippie clothes, wearing her Lennon sunglasses, she sparked a tiny flame of hope in Kyle's heart that maybe he could be loved.

Rob watched Kyle watching her. Out of dark street corners, looking up at her window as she read in her apartment. On rainy nights on the street, as she ran her errands and went to work. Kyle was trying desperately to find a way to reach out to her that wouldn't frighten her way or – even worse – make her feel nothing but pity for him.

And then one night, Kyle was there when an armed man threatened Lindy and her father. Her father killed the dealer's brother, and the man vowed to take Lindy's life as payment. Rob's son swept in, offering refuge to the drug addict's daughter. He blackmailed the man, offering his silence about the knowledge that Lindy's father had killed the dealer's brother in exchange for Lindy.

Rob watched as Lindy's anger, resentment, and fear at having to leave her home turned into respect, friendship, and ultimately love for his son. And Kyle loved her too – Rob could see that Kyle grew to love this girl more than anything he'd ever loved in his life. He loved her so much, in fact, that he was able to let her go so she could be free to do what she wanted, even if it meant that he'd never break the spell.

But Lindy finally said the words that freed Kyle, and he returned to his old self. He was the same, but different too. And even from his position as a passive viewer, Rob could feel his son's inner peace with life – a feeling completely alien to Rob.

Then there was another white flash and a jolt, and Rob found himself back in the library at the computer. He gasped and looked around – no one seemed to have noticed anything had happened.

Kendra was still sitting next to him. "None of what you saw happened," she stated bluntly. "Kyle was never born, he never rescued Lindy, and she never knew the kind of love that he gave her. Instead – well, you've read the reports, haven't you?"

Kendra leaned in to Rob, confidentially. "She didn't die right after Victor shot her, you know. She died on the way to the hospital. She bled all over the street."

Rob was horrified. "How can you say that so matter of factly?" he asked her.

"Oh Rob, don't get me wrong. She was a hot little piece, good for a fling, but certainly not worth getting yourself all upset about."

Kendra's paraphrasing of Rob's own cruel words to Kyle about Lindy stung more than Rob thought they could. He hung his head. "I was just kidding about that." He looked up, but Kendra was gone. He was alone again.

"Please finish what you're working on and sign out. The library is closing."

Rob turned around at the sound of the voice behind him. It was one of the librarians—the typical dowdy, bookish kind with black-framed glasses and a bland, formless dress.

"Just a few more minutes," Rob countered. "It's not nine o'clock yet."

"Yes, but we need to ensure that all the computers are shut down properly."

"Look, I signed up for this computer, and I have four more minutes I'm entitled to use!" Rob argued belligerently.

The woman shifted her eyes to the top of the computer screen, which showed the user sign-in information. "Oh, I'm sorry, _Mrs. Ogawa_, I didn't mean to kick you off of_ your_ computer," she snapped in a Southern drawl Rob found rather irritating.

He wasn't going to be phased by the librarian seeing through his bluff. "I'm sure your manager would be interested to know how you treat your patrons."

The woman smiled. "You're welcome to lodge a complaint. But we're also within our rights to expel someone who uses someone else's login to use our computers. Unless, of course, you have something to show that you are, in fact, Sue Ogawa."

Rob sighed in frustration. "No, I can't prove I'm anyone. I'm no one. And I guess I'd better get used to that." He got up from the computer station and began to walk away.

"We open again at 9 tomorrow," the woman called out. "You can come back then."

Rob stopped, turned his head to look at her. "Yeah, thanks. But what do I do until then? See, you leave and go home to a warm house, or apartment, or something. Maybe you have a mother, or a husband. Maybe a cat," he added the 'cat' part in to be snarky – she was kinda frumpy, after all. "You probably can't wait to leave, can you? You've worked a long day and it's time to relax. What if you never got to relax?"

The woman shrugged, and to his surprise, replied, "Sell your coat."

Rob's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

She pointed to his camel suede trench. "Alexander McQueen, right? You might be able to get 600 or so for it, mainly because you've worn it out a bit. But there's a consignment shop two blocks up from here that would take it. Those shoes too. That would give you enough to buy a new coat and shoes at Target, perhaps a night or two at a hotel, to figure out what you're going to do next. Relax, as you put it."

Rob couldn't believe the gall of this woman. Admittedly he was a little surprised that someone who sounded like they came from an episode of "The Beverly Hillbillies" would be able to recognize high end fashion. But really, sell his clothes? They were the last sweet reminder of his old life. He would not part with these things, even if it meant living on the street until he could break the spell. Because even though he might be cold, hungry, and dirty, he could still run his fingers over the soft suede of his coat and know the truth: that he was Rob Kingson, the handsome, successful newsman who had spreads in the _New York Times, Forbes_, and _GQ_, all in the same year.

"Well, thank you for that imaginative idea, but I think I'll pass. I'll leave you to close up your library and get on with your oh-so-exciting night life." Rob turned his back to her and started leaving.

"Well, I thank you so much, Mrs. Ogawa. You have a good night yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."

Rob scowled and, turning around countered, "Oh, what makes you think I'd ever come back to this—" But the librarian was already walking away steadily, out of earshot from his retort.

The night was colder than Rob imagined it would be. He pulled his coat a little closer to him, hoping that it would give him the warmth he needed, but it didn't. He found himself walking back to the neighborhood which housed the clinic. He peered into the glass window, but it was empty. Reluctantly he knocked on the glass, and waited several minutes. No one came.

He walked down another block, and as he passed an alley, he heard a voice call out, "Hey Rob!"

A shiver went through him, hearing someone call his name, calling for him. He turned, expectantly, to find Ben waving at him from inside the alley. His heart sank, but he responded with a wave and met the older man. There were other street people there too, some who had been at the church earlier in the day for breakfast. Some of them nodded curtly at him.

"Hey," Ben said. "Mike and some of the fellas from the clinic came by while you were gone. I saved you a sandwich." He held out a wax-wrapped package.

Rob cringed slightly, but his stomach was a demanding mistress and his hand reached out quickly to take the food. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Ben smiled. "No problem. Hey, you were gone a long time. Where were you?"

"No place," Rob told him, leaning against the wall. "Just the library."

"Oh, that's a good place. An oasis for those with nowhere else to go."

Rob frowned, unwrapping the sandwich. "Why's that?"

"The library? Oh, it's open to everyone, even bums like us. It's heated, it's full of stuff to read, and it's open for the entire day. I'd go there if I could."

Rob bit into the sandwich: stale bread, bland imitation cheese. But it was something. "Well, why don't you?"

Ben shrugged. "Too far for an old man like me to walk. I mostly stay around here, conserve my energy. I have a good spot."

Rob stopped chewing and thought of something. "Ben…how long have you been here?"

"Here? You mean, living without the confines of four walls and a ceiling? Oh, well…about fifteen years, I guess. I don't really keep track."

"Time flies, I guess," Rob remarked, not really knowing what else to say.

Ben chuckled. "When you're having fun, sure." He jerked his head in the direction of the other men, now huddling together with ratty blankets. "We're hunkering down for the night. Gonna be cold. You're welcome to join us."

Rob took the last bite of his sandwich. "I…I guess I will. Thanks."

Staying on the periphery of the circle, Rob sat on the ground and took off his coat, wrapping it around his front like a blanket. It felt like a circle of misery to him. He hoped someday he could break free of it. Rob shut his eyes, and trying desperately to slip away into unconsciousness, struggled to remember a time when he was truly happy.


End file.
